


who is big or bad or wolf?

by charizona



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Introspection, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-07-25 22:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: Villanelle submits to the mortifying ordeal of being known, or five times Villanelle got herself off and one time she didn't.





	1. nice face

**Author's Note:**

> “Think of someone you want to touch whom you cannot touch, someone forbidden. Think of a room where there is nothing except the two of you: still, you cannot touch them. Think of the heat between two hands about to touch, the language that exists in that silence.”
> 
> \- Chelsea Hodson, "A Simple Woman."

Sex is not usually part of it. Killing and sex make you feel similiarly, but sex is not usually part of the killing, and vice versa. You walk into a hospital with the intention of finding the medicine closet, pocketing some and loading others into a small needle. Konstantin told you to make it look like suicide, but there are quicker, easier options. Getting the nurse’s uniform is easy; no one gives you a second look when you slip into a closet at one end of the hallway and emerge anew.

There are guards in the hallway, nurses on the floor, and you count them before disappearing into a bathroom. There are at least five plans you have come up with when you hear the door open, the soft footsteps of someone else, and you stand very still as they pause in front of the sink.

Public bathrooms, for you, almost always offer a break. A brief, liminal space in time when you are able to hide in a stall and count your blessings, if blessings included your skills, your energy, and your youth. Sometimes, at airports, you like to find a bathroom and sit in it for tens of minutes, letting the shiny grey of the stall hold you in its arms. It’s comforting, and you like putting in headphones and not worrying about who may look at you and see you for what you are.

You worry about that a lot. Because for you, it feels like you are a beast trapped in human skin, just buzzing underneath the surface that is your beautiful face. You wonder how more people don’t notice it, and it surprises you the first few times when you lie, telling people you are someone else, and they believe you.

The British lilt you’ve perfected is the one you use most often because people do not question her. When not speaking English, you tend to lean on French for a variety of reasons, but mostly because you think in French and it is the most natural. You thought it was funny, in prison, that French replaced Russian in your head the moment you watched Anna stand in her doorway and say nothing as the cops dragged you away.

You step out of the bathroom stall in the hospital, your plans populated in your head like the tediousness of language, and you glance at the woman once, look away, and then look at her again.

The plans evaporate.

Of course, her hair is the first thing you notice. She fumbles with it, indecision in her touch as she judges what, exactly, to do with it, staring at her reflection in quiet contemplation. She bites her lip, runs fingers through dark, impossibly dark curls, and you cannot look away.

What were you doing here? You try to remember when she turns and looks at you.

She immediately sees the monster behind your eyes. You can tell, because she looks and looks and looks and she is looking  _ in _ , right at you and seeing you for who you really are. You swallow uncomfortably underneath her gaze, just as she asks, “Are you okay?”

You want to tell her that you are not, but the words do not come. Instead, you step around her, reaching for the door, because you have a job to do, a job you are incredibly good at, and being seen and remembered like this is not part of that job. She will see you and she will remember you and of course, you will remember her, but you will not want to.

Pause in the doorway. One hand on the handle, ready to leave, ready to release like a spring, but something incorrigible drags you back.

You tell her, “Wear it down,” because she should wear it down. That’s all. That’s all, you tell yourself, after you’ve left and she is still standing in the bathroom with one hand tangled in her hair and the other frozen in mid-air.

She should wear it down because it looks pretty down, not because she reminds you of a past long repressed, and definitely not because you wish your hands were the ones running through her hair. If you didn’t have a job to do, if it wasn’t incredibly important that she does not  _ remember _ you, you might have stuck around and made conversation.

“How are you?” you might’ve asked, as she casually washed her hands.

“ _ Merde _ ,” you mutter under your breath, remembering as you walk down the hallway that you definitely did not wash your hands. 

So, she would wash her hands and you would also wash your hands (because you like to be clean, you know, as your hands clench at your sides), and she would tell you that she was here because someone in her family is sick, or she would say she is visiting a friend, and you would tell her that you were off shift soon, so perhaps…?

She would say yes. They almost always do.

When you turn the corner and spot the guard at the end of the hallway, stationed in front of the door you are supposed to be going through, you do not have a plan. All plans have left you, so you resort to your backup plan: the knife in your boot.

One guard, one nurse, a second guard, and finally, finally target. You leave her breathing. You do not have time to watch her die, but the wound you have left will kill her.

You are in the elevator when someone starts yelling. A woman, distantly, calling for help and saying your target’s name.

You do not think of the kill, but instead you think of the woman.

Konstantin has not yet given you a ticket out of London, so you find a hotel and stay there, far, far away from the hospital. You do not go down to the hotel bar and find someone to bring back with you, because sex and killing are similar, yet separate. Instead, you take a bath, as you tend to do, and imagine washing off the blood that you already scrubbed off your hands.

You think of the woman, letting your hand drift between your legs, and imagine bringing her here, pulling her hair down, and running your hands through it while you kiss her. She would moan into your mouth, you would swallow it, and maybe she would let you tighten your grip at her scalp and pull her down to the ground, situating her on her knees and her face in your cunt.

You press a single finger into yourself, moving a bit under the water, while your thumb rubs at your clit with a strong, steady rhythm. You know yourself like you know the French language, impossibly thoroughly. You take your time, the woman’s face painted on the back of your eyelids, and you imagine the different ways you would seduce her, because the chase is most, if not all of it.

You slip in the hotel bathtub a bit when you wonder if she would be loud, a hiss escaping your lips as you work faster.  _ Viens pour moi _ , you would whisper to her, because in this fantasy it doesn’t matter that you are just an English nurse to her. 

She would rock underneath you, and you would smile at her.

Underneath the water, your hand stills. Reverberations rock through you, settling low in your gut.

After a long moment, you sink into the water, closing your eyes and letting the coolness caress your cheeks and your nose and your lips.


	2. don't i know you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle goes to Berlin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i'll post the next parts soon!  
also me: did not consider i am moving/working/doing everything this week
> 
> keep an eye on the chapter titles to keep up with the timeline because we have skipped an episode. there will be five episodes outlined in this and then a sixth part that is set after season two

You go to Berlin tasked with two things. It is not the first time you are in Berlin, and you hope it will not be the last. The first thing, Konstantin asked of you (actually,  _ they _ asked of you, but Konstantin delivered the postcard and you do not like to think of your employers any more than you have to), and the first thing is easy, easy peasy.

Hot Medica might be a place you visit again, because the idea of it is not truly terrible and sometimes, you like to see what works and what doesn’t.

The second thing is your own thing, because when you kill your target you know  _ she _ will be coming for you. Her name is Eve Polastri, and she is annoyingly beautiful, but perhaps the most intriguing thing about her is that she is hunting  _ you _ . 

You wonder, as you sit and wait outside of your target’s resting place, if she has realized you yet. If she connects the mindless nurse in the bathroom with the four people dead in the hospital. Something tells you that she must know, mostly because you do not want her to be stupid, this Eve Polastri, and because maybe, for the first time in a long time, you are finally having fun.

Pamela is an American tourist with a large group who wanders too far. She has auburn, curly, thick hair and a terrible, annoying accent (you hope, hope, hope that Eve’s is… less grating), but she blushes when you tell her she looks beautiful and you realize too late that you have spoken as yourself. Your English tinged with the hard edges of Russian, an accent you do not hate but also an accent you do not love.

Pamela is not Eve. 

She does not smell right, she does not look right, she does not wear the correct clothes. She is not Eve, and you are perhaps even sure that she does not move the way Eve would move, your face buried between her legs, even though this is how you would want her to. 

But… 

Pamela is too excited and swept to argue when you ask to call her by a different name.  _ No _ , you would tell Konstantin, if he asked,  _ I do not have a problem _ , because he would raise a single, bushy eyebrow and ask you if you were having an  _ issue _ with the fact that MI6 knows who you are.

Pamela is here for several days and wants to see you again. You accept because she is fun, you have a hotel room, and you are staying for another day anyway. When she goes off, back to her husband, you resume waiting for MI6 to arrive and investigate, “ _ Your work _ ,” Konstantin’s voice helpfully fills in.

You watch and wait.

Patience, you learned an incredibly long time ago, is one of your most valuable virtues. One does not expect the work of an assassin to be more than killing, but there is always more than killing. Killing is actually a very small part of it, despite it being the best part, and there is always the waiting and the hunting and the impersonating before there is the killing. 

Waiting and watching for Eve is actually a lot like waiting for a target. You wonder if she is a target yet, now that Konstantin knows about her, and the fire that immediately begins to burn inside of you is a slight problem. Frowning, you realize you do not want anyone else to kill her. You do not know if  _ you _ want to kill her (which might be a problem later), but you know for sure that you do not want anyone  _ else _ to do it.

Already, she is yours and yours alone. Just like you have somehow become hers.

When she steps out of the car, laughing and talking to someone you guess is her coworker, you stay very still. 

She does not see you, doesn’t even look in your direction even though your entire being screams for her. She does not see you, and you watch her make pleasant conversation with two men before disappearing into the building. Everyone else is going about their day, walking past you with purpose, while you wonder what she is seeing, thinking, wondering about  _ you _ . 

Was she placed on this as an assignment? Was she the one who saw you when no one else did? Is she bored with the case, with you? The thought comes and goes quickly, and you smile because how could anyone ever be bored with you?

When she is not paying attention, when her coworker is not paying attention, you steal her bag.

Eve’s clothes are not nice at all. This is the first disappointment, but you are not one to judge (at least, not immediately, because Eve dresses for comfort and maybe you will be able to help her, somewhere in the future), and even though Pamela is taller, the clothes fit her. You breathe her in, wearing your own piece of Eve’s clothing (perhaps the only thing actually  _ worth something _ ) around your neck, and close your eyes, kissing Pamela and letting everything else fall away.

Pamela does not know how to touch you, but that is okay because you cover your face with the scarf, breathing in the soft scents of wood (Eve’s husband) and cheap perfume (Eve), and you push two fingers into Pamela, say, “Eve, you feel incredible,” and she comes in that way that most straight (or straight until they’ve met you) women do: breathless, hard, until they grow very still.

You are not trying to be rude when you ask Pamela to leave. You are anxious, following her out of the hotel room, and you find Eve in a department store, attempting to buy something that looks nice.

You place a small bug on a belt, hang it outside of the dressing room, and your breath catches when you see her try it on. You are buzzing with energy, standing in the hallway of her hotel room, listening in your headphones as she talks to a man who you have come to know is Bill. He asks her if she’s ever been into women and you smile wickedly, leaning against the wall, because you were right. She wasn’t placed on this assignment, but asked for it, maybe even begged for it.

“Not like that,” Eve says, and it could mean so many things. That, being in love. That, in the throes of passion underneath expensive, silk sheets. That, that, that.

“Not even ones with… delicate features? Catlike eyes?” Is that you? You hope to  _ fuck _ that it is you.

And what Eve says next makes you weak at the knees, because you do not immediately understand exactly what she is talking about and only hear what she says. She says, “You wanna hear about her tits?” and you knock on the nearest door, hoping that no one answers.

No one does, so you let yourself in, slam the door closed, and before even taking a step further you shove your hand into your pants, rub at yourself furiously, listening to Bill tell Eve that she can’t wear a bra, that she’s not into women, and as you replay her conversation with her husband, his voice tinged with worry and maybe, perhaps, jealousy? You bite your bottom lip, stifling the sound that bubbles up and out of your throat without your permission.

When you’re done, your forehead is shiny with sweat.

When you start to follow Eve to dinner, you aren’t planning on killing her partner, but he grabs you by the wrist and foils your plans, so the least you can do is return the favor.


	3. i have a thing about bathrooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle and Eve have dinner.

Meeting Eve is necessary, despite what Konstantin may think. You are not in her home because you are interested in her, but because you need her in order to find your target. Of course, you can find your target without involving Eve, but it will be quicker this way, if you can just get her phone. Also, you are quite scary when you want to be, so it feels like hitting two birds with one stone.

Except, you are not meaning to be scary with Eve, yet she runs anyway. You tell her not to run, but she runs, upstairs of all places, and you are forced to chase her.

It is supposed to be the other way around, this. You are the one running, she is the one chasing. Between the two of you, she is supposed to think herself the cat and you the mouse. You are to occupy a place on a pedestal in her mind, both infinite and untouchable, and yet, she sees you and does not want to  _ know _ you. She runs.

She did not run the first time. You were in your element, a gun in your hand and a target just out of sight, and the target ran, aided by Eve and when you attempted to shoot at the car blindly, the car stopped. Eve did not run, then, but instead she got out of the car and walked toward you. Eve, it seems, is full of surprises, because she did not run the first time but she is running now, the second time.

Eve put her hand on her heart, and you choked on your own spit. You were glad, in that moment, that she was too far away to really notice how her soft eyes and her soft posture affected you. You knew, then, that she knew who you were, and like that time in the bathroom, you were being looked at, you were being  _ seen _ , and you knew, in that moment, she would never forget you.

When you take the stairs two at a time, chasing Eve through an unfamiliar house, you think distantly that maybe Konstantin is right. Maybe they  _ will _ catch you, and this is the beginning of the end.

The thing is, you do not want to kill Eve. You do not want to kill her, but she must not know that. You do not want to kill her, but you also do not know what you want to do with her, to her, about her.

She wields a toilet brush that is most definitely dirty after years of use, and you tackle her into the tub and try not to think about her being underneath you like this because she is screaming and that is definitely not how you do things. 

She is screaming and she will not stop, and someone will  _ hear _ , so you turn on the faucet and thankfully, that shuts her up. You tell her that you want to have dinner with her because you are trying to be funny.

She doesn’t laugh. She offers you cold leftovers (she offers to heat it up), and to you, this is weird.

For her, too, it is also probably weird, but for you, it is a first. This might be the first time you have ever sat in someone else’s home and ate food with them (someone who is not Anna), and while Eve radiates the type of fear so strong you can smell it, something about this feels so incredibly right. Like the final piece of a puzzle you didn’t even realize you were trying to solve.

You have never acutely wanted all of that -- that  _ normal _ stuff. Konstantin told you once to settle down and try to be normal for once, so you found a nice boy and you took him to bed because when you were younger someone told you your infatuation with women wasn’t normal. They didn’t know then that you liking women was probably one of the most normal things about you, the rest of the abnormal just settled underneath the surface. The tip of the iceberg, if you will.

For a minute, you imagine that Eve’s house could be your house. She could actually be wearing that dress for you, and wait a minute,  _ why _ is she wearing that dress? 

When she strips out of the dress and into a weird sweater-shirt (you trip over that one, thinking it through and not landing on anything that could remotely exist), you do not hold back. You tell her that you will not look, but come on, you are only human. She strips out of the dress and is wearing nothing underneath it except for panties that look like they must be ten years old.

It’s almost cute, the way she turns her back modestly. She freezes when you help her out of the dress, your cool fingers touching warm skin, but you do not look longer than you need to. You say, before you can talk yourself out of it, “You have a very nice body,” and take a final look.

You know that Eve truly knows what you are when she says, “Bullshit,” to your carefully concocted sob story. You are an actress at heart, good at surface level impersonations, and you laugh at her because it is easier than letting yourself realize that Eve is a lot smarter than you gave her credit for.

Eve can see you.

She attempts to catch you unaware, grabbing a kitchen knife, and she fights you when you easily seize her wrist. She fights you and you slam her against the fridge, and, and, and --

She smells like you.

Well, not like  _ you _ , but the concept of you.  _ La Villanelle _ . 

“You’re wearing it?” you say, because you can’t help yourself and you are… Well, you are surprised. First the dress, but now the perfume, too?

Perhaps molding Eve will be easier than you originally thought. Eve doesn’t flinch when you indulgently lean into her, breathing in deeply to take in your own favorite scent painted on your skin. It’s almost a pity that you aren’t smelling Eve as truly herself, but the fact that she cared enough about your gifts to actually put them on…

Anna never put them on. You would buy Anna dresses and perfumes and jewelry (okay, you stole the jewelry), but she never, never put them on. There was always an excuse.

But Eve…

To her credit, Eve stays very still when you know she can probably feel your breath on her neck. You have ideas, ideas you want to act on, when the sounds of voices comes through the door and Eve’s expression changes from one of submission to one of panic. The change in her eyes is instantaneous, and you remember that she has a husband, and from the sounds of the front door opening, her husband has a friend.

“Please,” Eve says softly, and you desperately wish she could say it under very different circumstances.

“Give me your phone,” you tell her, because there will be no more slip ups tonight. You are no longer alone with her, you no longer have time for games, and she does give you her phone. You hold it, finger hovering over the numbers, and give her a pointed look. Your jaw is tight now, your eyes no longer kind, because you know how to mask yourself when it truly matters.

A tear slips down Eve’s cheek as she recites to you possibly the stupidest passcode for a spy.

You become someone else, grabbing the dress off of the back of the chair (you have plans for it later), and Eve’s husband is somehow more hideous in person. “Thank you, Eve,” you shout, a foot away from a living, breathing person who has had Eve in the way you desperately yearn for. “That was delicious!”

You do not, on the way to your target’s safehouse, think about how you had wanted to wipe away the tear on Eve’s cheek.

Tonight is a busy night. You do not have time to really, really think about your time with Eve until you are back in Paris, collapsing into your bed and not wasting any time to slide your pants off of your hips and slip a hand between your legs.

You turn over, pressing your face into a pillow sprayed carefully with your perfume, and you rock against your hand with a desperation you usually reserve for quick trysts in between jobs. You say her name, out loud, over and over again, and you think about her body in that dress, her body out of that dress, and the way she had tried to stab you with a dull kitchen knife, or the way she hadn’t flinched when you leaned into her. You could’ve kissed her neck, and you imagine doing so. 

You could’ve pressed your lips to her jugular, felt a thrumming pulse against your tongue, and she would have shivered and not dared move. Maybe she would’ve let you slip a hand between her legs or let you take her against the fridge. Her husband could’ve walked in, like he did, and she would’ve been shuddering against you, clawing at you, and she would’ve come undone so, so easily.

“Fuck,” you say into the pillow, shaking hard as a sharp orgasm rips through you.

You flop onto your back, staring at the ceiling, and suppose you should’ve moved your new bedspread before you ruined it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after a while villanelle stops being a real word


	4. the hungry caterpillar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle goes to a school party (among other things).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY. i forgot this story existed. been working on the hunger games thing. the good news is that other chapters are written/half written!
> 
> ALSO NOTE - we have skipped a few (a lot) of episodes.

You did not, unfortunately, masturbate while back in prison. Russia is full of too many ghosts (literal ghosts now, after Anna…), and even though killing Nadia was thrilling, you did not have a moment to pause before you were shuttled in front of Carolyn Martens, the big boss, and then your employers busted you out, slaughtering about six or seven people in order to do it, and you did not have a moment after that, either, because you were sent to kill Konstantin, and then there was his daughter, and then there was…

There was Eve.

She stood in your apartment and turned every ounce of an impression you had of her on its head. She sat on your bed and told you that she thought about everything you did, had done, were going to do. You had to hold yourself still, to keep her from realizing just how high your heart had lept. There was no apprehension when you told her you had masturbated about her before, and she… She did not disappoint, merely pressing her lips together to tell you that it was unexpected.

She had lain in bed next to you, you had touched her face, and then she had stabbed you.

At first, of course, you were angry, but the world kept spinning, even with your hole in your gut, and by the time you woke up in the hospital you were able to recognize the stabbing for what it truly was: Eve running from herself. From you.

You tried shifting a hand between your legs in the hospital, while Gabriel snored across the room, but you had irritated your stitches, lost sight of the ceiling, still too woozy to even make your blood pump like that, so it’s after you escape the hospital, after you find Julian, and after an almost infection that you finally have a moment’s reprieve.

Raymond deposits you in a hotel in London, and he tells you explicitly not to go anywhere near Eve. You do not like Raymond really at all, so you aren’t going to listen.

He tells you that Eve has  _ forgotten _ you. How could she? Eve, who thinks about everything you do, what you wear, who you spend time with. That Eve could never forget you, but your mouth twists unhappily when you realize he asked you to be discreet with the businessman so Eve wouldn’t  _ know _ , and despite the fact that you argue with Raymond, tell him that Eve would be able to recognize your work anywhere, you aren’t entirely sure, as you watch his back disappear in the doorway, if you were telling the truth.

After calling Niko’s school, you unzip your slacks, lie back on the bed, and put one hand’s fingers against your scar, feeling the slightly raised skin, while the other sinks into your pants and finds itself between your legs. You don’t press into the wound while touching yourself; instead, you squeeze your eyes shut and think about your apartment in Paris, about Eve lying in bed across from you, just a few inches away. You imagine leaning forward and actually kissing her, as your fingers move faster against your clit, and you imagine her kissing you back, the knife forgotten at her side, and her shifting closer to you, hips against hips, breasts against breasts. She would gasp against your mouth as your hands drifted downward, and you gasp now, turning your head so far to the side that it’s almost painful.

You lie in the bed, breathing hard, for a long, long moment after that.

Then, you get to work.

Becoming Kim is sort of fun; you usually do not have a lot of time to think about your personas, slipping into a new person each time like they are a coat, but you like imagining who they might be, who they could become before you interrupt them by killing your target.

Kim is reclusive and pathetic, you imagine, as you put together her macaroni necklace and think about going to the school party. She probably does not have a lot of sex, and maybe she has a lot of annoying habits, or collects something weird. You like to collect things, but the things themselves don’t matter; you like expensive things, and you will admit that watching your employers clean up in your apartment and throw your things into plastic bags hurt just a little in your chest.

No one notices that Kim’s outfit looks so drab yet is so expensive. They do not see past the huge spectacles balancing on your nose (you usually do not like glasses; you have perfect vision, and like any predator, you find yourself annoyed when your view is impeded at all), and no one looks at you twice, which is always good. 

No one except Raymond. He stands in your way when you approach Eve in the park, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of how… stunning she looks. And how terrible Raymond looks standing next to her. Your fist clenches when he talks to her, and you decide you will rip his throat out eventually when he reaches up and touches Eve’s hair. It would be so easy, you could gut him, watch all of his entrails spill out of him…

The thing is, if Raymond had let you approach Eve and slip the lipstick into her pocket (so she would  _ know _ it was you), then you wouldn’t have to go to the school itself, exactly like he didn’t want you to.

So really, it’s his fault that you’re in a stairwell with Gemma, Niko’s annoying suitress, pretending that Kim has a smoking problem and not going back to the hotel like he wants you to.

You tell Gemma all sorts of things, adopting the cool and safe English accent, and she’s just insecure enough to eat it all up. You wonder if Niko will be able to taste the cigarette on Gemma’s lips, and you think about all of the ways you could push the two of them together, push Niko further away from Eve, and you smile, quietly, and Gemma frowns at you, says, “Did I say something funny?”

Turning away from her, you make a face, but then you lean into her, bumping shoulders affectionately, and say, “I just know completely how you’re feeling, and really, I should tell you that I was in the exact same position once.”

“Really?” Gemma looks at you hopefully.

“Really,” you agree. “I was…” You search for the right expression. “Head over heels for this man, and he was married,” you make a face, and Gemma nods solemnly, “but through all of it, he realized what was right in front of him. That his wife was just… boring. He didn’t want to be boring, you know?”

Gemma stands up, seemingly inspired, and you surreptitiously put out your cigarette on the floor. “You’re right,” Gemma gushes, nodding to herself, getting pumped to make a move. “He’ll have to realize that someone who actually wants to spend time with him is better than… Well, better than someone who doesn’t.” Gemma straightens her back, pushing her chest forward, and your eyes widen.

“When in doubt,” you tell her, as she goes toward the door, “Use your tits.” You send her off with a wink.

Now, this would be all fine and good except you stand in the hallway outside of Niko’s classroom and listen to Eve attempt to be sexy and Niko attempt to be into it.  _ You could run your fingers through that hair all day _ , Niko says, pulling Eve into him (you look, but you don’t really  _ want _ to look), and you clench your jaw, imagining running your hands through Eve’s hair, like you have wanted to since the moment you met her.

“ _ What are you looking at? _ ” Anna asked one day, when you were lying in bed next to her and she was naked and so were you, but your leg was hitched between hers, the wetness between them sticking to your thigh. 

“ _ You _ ,” you had said. Then, you amended, “ _ Your hair _ .” You reached out to touch it. Anna’s hair was softer than you thought it would be, thicker than you could’ve ever guessed, and you liked getting your hands lost in it, liked running your nails across her scalp and liked seeing the way her eyes fluttered closed at the touch.

Standing outside of Niko’s classroom, listening as Eve stops Niko’s insistent kissing and utters a practically panicked, “What is that?”

“It’s an apple,” Niko supplies, sounding perhaps flummoxed, and you smile because she  _ is  _ thinking about you. You had left an apple in Gabriel’s hand for her, and you smile and smile and smile despite rushing down the hallway to get out of Eve’s sight. The next thing you know, the fire alarm is blaring but you are already on the street. You almost leave before you remember the lipstick.

Eve is standing in the middle of the walkway, searching faces for yours (she does not even think to look behind her), and you get close enough that you can almost touch her. Close enough to slip the lipstick into her bag and smell her, the sweet wafting scent of whatever cheap perfume Eve decided on. It makes you wonder if she’s left yours in a box somewhere, untouched since you caught her wearing it.

There’s a thrill inside of you as you turn away from her, and you cannot stop smiling. It’s not a sexual thrill or the thrill of the kill, but an Eve thrill. A new kind of thrill altogether. 

And later, after Konstantin has appeared in your hotel room and you have reconciled (you are actually sorry for shooting him), when he tells you there will be agents surrounding the hotel in minutes, you feel that thrill again. You do not believe him, but something burns in you when you hear them break down the doors of the room down the hallway. You go to the sighthole, leaning so hard into the door that it digs into your forehead, and then --

And then you see her.

The thrill shoots through you again, because she is looking for you, because Eve is looking for  _ you _ , and you gasp, unable to stop the sound from coming out of your mouth, as the thrill shoots through your chest (electrifying your heart), your gut (your stomach flips over twice), and your groin (an ache for another you haven’t felt in a very long time), and then Konstantin is grabbing you, shoving his disgusting fingers into your mouth to shut you up.

He doesn’t say a word, however, because he knows. 

You think about Eve’s hand against the door, feeling you on the other side of it, once you and Konstantin have checked into a hotel for the night and you are finally, finally alone.

You are soaking wet, your cunt drenched with want for Eve, Eve’s body, Eve’s hair, and you say her name softly, then loudly, then in a gasp, over and over again. “Eve, Eve, Eve, Eve,” until you can’t say her name at all, until the consistent, rough pressure of your fingers inside yourself are pushing you past the point of no return.

You thrash in bed, tangling yourself in the sheets, and you come hard, shattering against the sheets. 

Still, sitting in the afterglow of your orgasm, you cannot wipe the smile from your lips. As soon as your legs can work again, you crawl out of bed, tuck the robe around your chest, and open your laptop. A quick login into one of your accounts, and then you start scrolling through real estate. A cabin somewhere could be nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> villanelle is feral horny energy


	5. wide awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)

Aaron sucks.

You are not going to sleep with him, and for some reason, he does not want to sleep with you. At first, you think this is weird because most people do, but you learned a long time ago not to let small things like that get to you, especially when it comes to men. A lot of men do not want to sleep with women who know they are beautiful, and you know what you are, what you look like.

You just wish Eve would realize it.

There is an ache inside of you that hides behind the games you play with her. You slammed Aaron in the face with a book and walked off in a storm of anger and frustration and you wished, stubbornly and stupidly, that Eve would be foolish enough to follow. You wanted to growl at her, you wanted her to test you in the ways she likes to test you, push at your buttons and annoy the shit out of you.

You wanted her to do that because you wanted to kiss her to shut her up, because if she was telling you how terrible you were with Aaron, at least that would piss you off enough to forget yourself. You are wound too tightly around Eve these days because she has gotten comfortable with you.

Instead, instead of Eve following you out of Aaron’s neighborhood, you stalked two women and played a game with yourself. If they took the next left, you would let them live, but if they took the next right, you would slam one of their heads against a hard wall and make the other watch. If they went straight, you would take them home and have your way with them  _ and then _ you would kill them.

Anger is an emotion you know very, very well.

The girls you stalked took a left. Something inside of you deflated, as you realized you hadn’t come up with a plan other than letting them live, so you decided that taking them home and fucking them both was probably a better alternative than fucking  _ yourself _ and thinking about Eve. They came with you easily, after scaring them a bit and offering them a place to stay, and one of them kissed your neck with the other kissed your mouth, and neither of them reminded you of Eve.

Yet, you thought about her when you buried your face between the brunette’s legs. You thought about her while the blonde kissed her friend. And you thought about Eve when one of them reached for you and instead of letting them touch you, you climbed over the blonde and pressed her face against your center, grinding hard on the sharp jut of her chin and coming messily on her face.

Eve came to your apartment the next morning and you were less angry, no longer focused on Aaron and how much he irked you, and somehow, you had managed to tell Eve that she made you feel things.

Things.

“I feel things when I’m with you,” you said (the Eve thrill running through your veins like an electric current), and Eve looked like she wanted to respond to that, to say something probably annoying, something that would ruin the moment, but then the brunette walked out of the bathroom and you kicked yourself for all of it. For taking them home, for fucking them until three in the morning, and for letting them stay as long as they did. You kicked yourself because yeah, there was annoyance in Eve’s gaze, but there was also hurt. 

See, being around Eve lets you recognize emotions in others that you normally don’t, and you know that you’d hurt her when she stood up and waved her hands around the room, asking if there was anyone else you were hiding. She forgot completely what she came to do with you, and she left as soon as she arrived.

With Aaron, in Rome, you are careful to do the right thing. Aaron sucks, annoys you endlessly, but after a first day of a job well done, you remember the bug Eve snuck into a piece of bread, and you remember the soft touch of your hand on hers.

Aaron annoys you, you annoy Eve. It’s like a cycle.

You slip between the expensive sheets (that is, perhaps, the one thing Aaron has going for him) and let your hand rest on your stomach. Before long, your thumb drifts underneath your waistband and you realize you are not tired in the slightest.

“What are you doing?” you say quietly, dropping  _ Billie _ and reverting back to yourself. Yourself, as Eve knows you, though you do not really think of English tinged with Russian as part of you.

You wish the mic worked both ways. You would listen to Eve complain about how terrible it is to work with you. You would listen to her tell you about her long day of spying, listening, and making plans to catch Aaron. You  _ want _ to listen to her, you want her to tell you these things, and the mere thought of normalcy with Eve makes your breath catch.

Letting your hand slip between your legs, you hope that only Eve is listening. “Are you going to listen all night?” you ask, smiling at the ceiling.

_ Yes _ , Eve would say.  _ So I can make sure you don’t fuck anything up. _

You bite your lip, eyes fluttering closed as your thumb brushes your clit, and say, “Are you having fun in Rome?” You want to tell Eve that you, for sure, are having your own kind of fun, but you let out a breathless moan without meaning to, so you know that she knows.

If she is even listening.

You laugh a bit, feeling how wet you already are. You’ve never really been into voyeurism (at least, not sexually), but the idea of Eve on the other end, sitting shock still while you dip a finger into your own wet heat feels almost better than any of the times you’ve imagined what you might do to her. You wonder if she is actually having fun in Rome, or if you are making things difficult for her.

“You should let yourself go once in a while,” you tell Eve, spreading yourself apart and pushing two fingers in. “I can -  _ ah  _ \- help you.”

You imagine Eve sitting on the bed next to you, watching you, listening to you, and you wonder what she looks like touching herself. She could be doing that right now, for all you know, but she also could not even be listening, she could be sound asleep in her own bed.

Your hand moves slowly, teasing, and you fuck yourself with an idleness reserved for the afternoons where you have nothing to do. You are not even tired, not right now, your body reacting to every small brush of a finger, every ounce of friction, because there is a good chance Eve is actually listening to this. “Eve,” you croon, voice just barely a whisper, because you want her so  _ fucking _ badly. This might have started as some type of game, but as you draw yourself closer and closer, you realize it might’ve been yourself you were playing all along. “Eve,” you say again, “I want to… I want to touch you.”

The admission feels like too much. Your body reacts to it, skipping a beat, and you move a bit more frantically against yourself, your other hand grasping your breast and plucking at a taut nipple. 

Your head twists to the side and you breathe into the pillow, moaning softly, and you don’t dare say another word, instead thinking about Eve hovering next to you, wanting to touch but not being about to, Eve listening, wanting to speak but having no voice. Eve would hesitate, afraid to touch or break through this tension the two of you have built.

You told her, you actually said out loud that you masturbate about her. A lot. Laughter bubbles in your throat, pure and unbidden, and you slow your pace between your legs, hoping Eve thinks you’re crazy, hoping Eve thinks you might be mocking her, but also hoping that Eve is there, annoyed and frustrated that she’d been rocking against her own hand and you had started giggling.

Your laughter breaks into a moan as you curl fingers inside of yourself, your other hand running down the length of your body and finding your clit. Your nails scratch against the soft skin of your own thigh, and you imagine Eve pushing you against the bed, pinning you there. You think about the way she would feel on top of you, underneath you, right next to you.

“Eve…” you say, and soon your back is arching off the bed, the muscles of your legs and ass clenching as your hips thrust up, up, up.

Eve’s name is on your lips, and the ghost of Eve is all around you, as you come once, and then with an insane amount of self control, your fingers keep moving and you’re coming again, softer this time, imagining Eve holding you and not letting you go.

You lie in bed, smiling at the ceiling, and say, “Thank you,” and laugh again.

You fall asleep thinking about Eve in bed next to you, as spent as you are from sex and tension and sex, and you think about Eve, but you also think about a cabin in Alaska. You had put the deposit down before you left for Rome, and you hope, you really hope, that you will get to go.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm writing this right now because inspiration hit and i've wanted to do something with villanelle for a while. i'll be finished with this soon because it isn't long. each chapter is set during/after the episode that it's named after.
> 
> using some headcanon ideas/info about villanelle from the books. 
> 
> hope you enjoy! comments and kudos, always appreciated.


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